


Wishbone

by jungwoo (abernathy)



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author Kim Jungwoo, Classical Singer Kim Doyoung, Homophobia, It's in France because I uh wanted to, M/M, basically jungwoo writes a play, doyoung is a bi confirmed, i said what i said 70s doyoung is it, jungwoo is a gay mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 08:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18331946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abernathy/pseuds/jungwoo
Summary: To him, it was this: the liberty of Paris, stamped on paintings and sculptures and the memory of the people, different from everything he had ever known.Yes, Jungwoo thought,this is it.





	Wishbone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i suck at summaries but basically this is based off of a show called hymn of death  
> this chapter is like a preview i guess because at first i intented to do a two-parter but then i realized i suck i writing unless i receive feedback so yeah

_ **Paris, 1976** _

 

The heart of Paris was busy like always at five o’clock on a weekday, people coming from their workplaces and trying to get home as quickly as possible with the growing amount of cars driving down the busy lanes of Champs-Élysées. Behind them, the Arch rose high like the buildings around the city, beautiful yet unnoticeable to most Parisians who had seen it a thousand times and had grown accustomed to its presence. Jungwoo remembered being like those people, back in Korea, weight bringing down his shoulders and distracting him from the beauty of the city and its people. Thankfully Paris had brought a new vitality in him, or maybe it was just that he managed to get away from the stifling heat and pollution of Seoul—here he felt like he could breathe easier, and that the time passed slower, like the city was begging to be seen, admired, discovered.

Jungwoo had lost count of how many times he had come to this avenue since he arrived in France. Sitting in one of the benches, watching the cars and the workers and the musicians who came to perform, had become one of his favorite pastimes in the last year. It was something about the workings of Paris, like an overcomplicated engine that rebooted every morning and couldn’t entirely work like the day before. Jaehyun liked to say that it was the European way, the unstopping progress and rush of capitalism, years ahead of what they knew and were trying to achieve in Korea. In some ways, Jungwoo agreed with him—he, more than anyone, knew the effects of business, in both the city and the people, and though he wished he could set Paris apart from what he had grown to know, he could see the resemblance to his home, masked with beautiful monuments and the freedom he had longed for his entire life.

To him, it was this: the liberty of Paris, stamped on paintings and sculptures and the memory of the people, different from everything he had ever known. Here, Jungwoo saw the fine arts revered alongside the ugly capitalism of the new world; the people growing their own peculiarities even on suits and pencil skirts. Progress like the one he saw on the news every day, in America, in Tokyo, in every city except his own ugly, decadent Seoul.

A running child tripped over his extended legs and fell. His mother, a hurried-looking woman with a sparkly set of blue eyes, picked him up from the ground and mumbled her apologies before continuing on. Even in this, Jungwoo liked the city the most; he doubted in Seoul the woman would have looked at him, more worried about staying ahead of time than keeping her manners. He sighed when a breeze brushed against his face, rustling his hair and carrying the sounds of the city, from the whistle of the trains to the people who came to this square to show off their talents and hope that something out of the ordinary would happen to them.

A sound, suddenly, lit up the corners of the square, rich in pastel colors that brightened the slowly darkening evening like nothing Jungwoo had ever seen before. Though it was low in volume, the melody was strong in its beauty, rustling leaves and lifting up the women’s skirts like a breeze that came from the wrong direction. Jungwoo looked around, wondering if anyone else was seeing it, but wasn’t surprised when he noticed the people were still going on their ways, time too distracting on their minds for them to even be able to admire the sound. It was a man singing, his mind quickly supplied, though he couldn’t locate the source amidst the performers in the square. Besides, the sound was far-sounding, enough that he could tell wasn’t meant for performance and more for personal pleasure, which made it even more interesting as it wasn’t common for anyone to truly enjoy themselves around the busiest avenue of Paris.

Jungwoo got up when the colors suddenly enveloped him, flicking his hair almost teasingly as they passed and inviting him to meet their origin. He went along with them, mesmerized, like they were a thread to something fundamental that he couldn’t afford to lose, across the street and into the line of trees from the other side of Champs-Élysées. Following was almost natural to Jungwoo, the colors spinning around him in glee and guiding him to where they were being crafted. He wondered if this palette could one day match his own work, darker and with more blues than bright pastels, but mesmerizing all the same. Minho could definitely deal with brightening himself up, anyways; his actors had been complaining about the seriousness of the play for a long while now, but Jungwoo couldn’t find the right amount of cheerfulness to his usually somber main character. This was just enough—the beauty of the song and the melancholy with which it was sung. _Yes_ , Jungwoo thought. _This is it_.

 He evaded a small group of people focused on getting their picture taken in front of the Arch and was surprised to find a single man leaning against one of the tree trunks, no instruments, no audience around him. He didn’t seem to notice when Jungwoo came closer, eyes closed in concentration as he slowly swung a brown notebook from side to side and sang a French song Jungwoo didn’t know much about except that it had been on the radio for the past month or so. Here, the colors were dimmer, darkened by the shadows of the tress and outshined by the beauty of the mysterious man who painted them, seeming almost to snuggle against him as he sang. Jungwoo waited for him to finish and watched as they fainted until the street was street again, grey and dimly lit at sunset.

“That was beautiful,” he said in accented French, but slowly enough to make himself understood.

The man jumped from where he was sitting, eyes going wide at the presence in front of him. He instantly shut the notebook in his hands and sat up straight, so his spine was nearly one with the tree. “Thank you,” and then, when Jungwoo didn’t immediately go away, he said, in a much lighter accent than his, but quite similar, “What do you want?”

Jungwoo thought it must be fate, two Koreans meeting in Paris on a random night and painting such a beautiful picture together. He switched to his mother tongue and said, “You must be the first Korean I meet in France that didn’t come here on the same plane as me.”

The man stared at him for long enough for Jungwoo to wonder if he was seriously going to ignore him until he left, but finally, he gathered his things from the ground and got up until they were face to face. Slowly, he said, “I’m new in Paris.”

“Oh,” he said, quite eloquently, “So that’s why I hadn’t noticed you before. I come here quite often, I’m sure I would have recognized a voice that beautiful earlier. I’m Jungwoo.” He bowed, suddenly shy at the man’s intent gaze. He was even more beautiful than Jungwoo initially thought.

“Come here often? Doesn’t it get boring after a while?” He asked, almost mockingly.

“It beats Seoul,” and then, when he got a cryptic expression in return, “I guess.”

“I think they’re both beautiful in their own unique ways,” the man said. It didn’t escape Jungwoo he still hadn’t introduced himself or bowed, but he wasn’t about to point it out, lest he got sick of his small talk and turned around and away. “You don’t miss Seoul? I’ve been here three weeks and already feel like crying every time I think of home.”

Jungwoo shrugged. “I guess I don’t have a lot of nice memories of Seoul,” he said, but left it at that. He smiled then, shyly, and said, “You know, I’m a play writer. A musical, actually. I came here because I thought your voice would fit in great with the story.” He bit his lip. “Well—I mean, I came here because I thought your voice was beautiful, _and_ that it would fit in.”

The man finally smiled, though Jungwoo didn’t think it was because of the compliment, and the sight nearly took his breath away. He tried to focus, a little winded, on what he was saying, and was disappointed when he finally caught him shaking his head. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I don’t have any interest in plays, or acting, really. I’m here to focus on my studies on nothing else.”

It was hard to hide his disappointment. Not only because a great fit for Minho was escaping through his fingers, but also, foolishly, because Jungwoo suddenly realized he wasn’t going to be seeing or hearing this man again. He felt his cheeks heating at the childish thought. It shouldn’t be surprising that a random person he approached on the street wouldn’t be open to becoming the main character on his play, but still, he found himself frowning at the quick rejection.

Rather rudely, he said, “What’s your name?” And then, “Sorry,” at his eagerness.

The man laughed again. “I’m Doyoung.”

“Doyoung,” Jungwoo said. “You should at least come to one practice, then you can say no. It’s just—your voice is all I’ve been waiting for, really. We have one tomorrow, actually, at four. It’s in the fine arts department of Paris-Diderot, you know the one? The uni at Thomas Mann Street?”

He nods. “Yeah, I’m a transfer there,” he mumbled. “I don’t know, Jungwoo, I’m only a singer, not an actor. I’ll think about it, alright?” Doyoung looked at the watch on his wrist, rather insincerely. “I need to go now. I’ll see you around uni either way, okay?” And turned around, nearly bumping on an oblivious passerby in his haste to leave.

Jungwoo chuckled, resigned. He watched as Doyoung walked away, half-preoccupied with putting all his things inside the bag hanging from his shoulder but obviously not wanting to slow down lest Jungwoo hook him into a conversation again. Absentmindedly, Jungwoo wondered if he had scared him with his excitement, but it was hard to care when he thought about adding a voice like Doyoung’s to his play. It was, in fact, fate, he decided, to meet him at a random night like this.

He hoped it held good things for them both.


End file.
